


why are you like this

by Anonymous



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, be the change you want to see in the world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23254558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Mace and Plo have had an ongoing love affair since their days as Padawans together. Plo has never seen mischief he did not wholeheartedly embrace. Mace is the poor bastard the universe elected to play straight man.Mace doesn’t know what being he pissed off in a past life to deserve this, but Force help the jackass who tries to take Plo from him.
Relationships: Plo Koon/Mace Windu
Comments: 5
Kudos: 158
Collections: Anonymous, Mace Windu Fandom Safe Space





	1. mischief

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blackkat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/gifts).



Mace knows the second he opens his mouth that he’s going to regret it. “Yes, Master Koon?”

“I would like to add an item to the agenda,” says Plo. “Quickly addressed, Master Windu, I assure you.”

Mace mentally narrows his eyes at Plo, who looks as serene and composed as ever but  _ feels _ like he’s up to something. He’s known Plo far too long to believe his outward appearance. On the other hand, this Council meeting has been a trainwreck of awkward silences, and Kenobi is probably wondering what he's agreed to by joining the Order’s guiding body, so things really can’t get any worse. Probably. “Go ahead.”

“The atmosphere in these chambers is really becoming quite uncomfortable,” says Plo. “Would anyone object if I reduced the oxygen?”

Ki-Adi immediately begins choking on his drink, and Depa narrowly avoids being sprayed even as she claps a hand over her mouth. Kenobi lets slip a snicker before he regains control of himself. Plo sits back in his seat radiating the self-satisfied air he gets whenever he gives Mace the urge to introduce his head to the nearest wall. But the tension in the room has broken, so begrudgingly Mace has to award Plo a point.

He lets out a calming breath. “Moving on . . .”

* * *

Mace has three classes to teach after the Council meeting, and then paperwork related to the Senate to go over. By the time those are finished, the sun is setting over the Coruscant horizon and he would be perfectly happy to never see another file again. He seats himself on a cushion by the window in his quarters overlooking the endless city, and settles in to meditate. There are hundreds of Jedi sparks in his awareness. Each is tangled with hundreds more by fine threads. He does his best not to focus on any point in particular; they are all possibilities, nothing more. Decisions that have yet to be made cannot be allowed to take precedence over the people who have yet to make them. 

He is vaguely aware of his door sliding open. It is more difficult to miss the sudden weight in his lap, or the hand curling around his knee. Plo’s head rests on Mace’s legs, and he breathes measured breaths, curled on his side and still. The air passing through his filter rasps the way it does when it’s been a little too long between changes, and Mace reaches out to tap on the mask. 

“There was a delay with the next shipment,” Plo says placidly. “Sha’s cracked last month, so I gave her my spare.” 

And now he’s rationing himself to make it until a new shipment of antiox filters arrive. Mace sighs. The escalating conflict in the galaxy is causing all kinds of problems, some of which in less immediately obvious ways than others.

“You have a mission tomorrow,” he says. “What are you doing up?” 

Plo hmmms and doesn’t answer. Visions, then. He’s always needed reassurance after his dreams; either he knows something bad is going to happen, or the images linger in his mind and become nightmares. Mace doesn’t envy him his odd ability, any more than Plo envies the shatterpoints. He‘ll be present either way. Plo leans into his touch.

But Plo isn’t as young as he used to be, and he will have regrets if Mace allows him to sleep on the floor. Thus begins an ordeal of prying a drowsy, unmotivated Kel Dor off his person and relocating him to the bed. For how much practice Mace has had over the years at this sport, it never seems to get any easier, but at last he has Plo tucked into the side that he prefers, the lights off, with an extra stack of blankets in reach. Plo traces a spiral on Mace’s palm, his version of a kiss, and begins to drift. 

“You timed that on purpose,” Mace says. “Try not to kill Ki-Adi next time.”

“You air-breathers,” Plo answers. “So fussy.”

* * *

In the morning, Mace wakes alone with a new blanket folded where Plo had been, having stolen the covers twice in the night. The smell of caf drifts in from the kitchenette. When he gets up, there is also a pastry and a note waiting for him, which he enjoys and tucks away. 

A quick check of the Temple logs as he eats tells him what he already knows: Plo departed on his mission in the very early hours of the day. He will be away for a few weeks, during which time Mace will need a lot less headache medicine and a lot more meditation. And then he will be back, and Mace’s needs will reverse, as they do. It has been this way since they were Padawans together, leaving a trail of mayhem and Masterly commiseration in their wake, and though Mace wouldn’t call it attachment, he has no desire for things to change. Plo’s sarcastic wit and appalling timing have worn a place for themselves in his life, and his serene counsel and firm convictions are as much a part of Mace’s vision of the future as Yoda’s continued existence. 

Classes continue and the front continues to advance, and life goes on.

* * *

Three weeks later, Plo is not back. His lightsaber, however, arrives at the Temple in pieces in a box with a vidfile. The Plo in the video is unconscious and chained as an unidentified figure approaches with a vibroblade and slices off his talon, cover and all, leaving four even fingers. There is already bruising developing on his face, and his arm sits at an unnatural angle, all the more obvious as he has been stripped down to his innermost tunic. His mask, at least, is still in place, though the rasping has become even more pronounced. 

“This  _ thing _ is guilty of orchestrating the oppression of millions of sentient beings,” a distorted voice states from offscreen as someone jabs Plo with a needle and empties something sickly red into his veins. “It will pay for its crimes. 

“Think on your sins.”


	2. tension

Mace has been in a constant state of low-grade panic. He hasn’t let it show - he still has responsibilities to the Order, and Plo would never let him live it down if he let everything go to shit in his absence - but in the moments when he is less disciplined and owes nothing to anyone, he is consumed by thoughts of what must be happening to Plo. The Order does not take the abduction of one of its own lightly, and context suggests that this is related to the war effort, so the Senate cannot fault them for throwing resources at this problem - but it takes time for the slicers to pull apart the video. It takes time to trace the package and run tests for residue on Plo’s lightsaber and it’s time that Mace fears Plo doesn’t have. The file was timestamped two weeks ago; who knows what’s happened since then? 

All this even without considering his continued ability to breathe. Mace doesn’t know much about how long a filter lasts or the particular limits on how much oxygen Plo can be exposed to before something terrible happens to him. It’s not information that Plo’s ever felt the need to share, and until recently it hasn’t been an immediate concern. 

He presses his palms to his eyes and breathes deep. There is nothing he can do before the slicers have more information. The galaxy is wide and ransacking everything in his path will do no good, however much he wants to. It is a struggle to remain even-tempered when inside he is being consumed by conflict. This is something that he has ever admired about Plo: his confidence, his steadfast surety, his unwavering faith. If their positions were exchanged, Plo would not be so torn. But he is in captivity, and Mace is cranking up the difficulty setting on the practice range as far as it will go so he can find his equilibrium in Vaapad. 

The way is not in perfection; the way is in the struggle, in the effort, in the standing up again. Mace lives this aspect of the Code more than any other. Finding balance has not become easier with time. Sparks fly where his training saber contacts the droids with the maximum justifiable amount of force. He has been working on this setting for years now and has yet to complete it; it’s above most Jedi. 

A droid shambles up to him and delivers a weak electrical jolt. Mace jerks away, spins, taps the droid across the middle, and then gets a second stronger jolt from behind. The simulation comes to a halt. 

“You’ve improved,” says Ki-Adi Mundi from the sidelines. “Eight minutes.” 

Mace thumbs the ignition and leans over to catch his breath. Ki-Adi is here for a purpose; neither of them are much for social calls.

“There’s another video,” says Ki-Adi. 

“How is he?” Mace asks. The turmoil rushes in again. 

“Alive,” says Ki-Adi after a pause. “Not helping himself.”

Of course he isn’t. Plo Koon has never seen an opportunity for snark that he let pass him by. Amazing how even absent, he can find new ways to test Mace’s serenity. “Any word from the slicers?”

“They say with the new data, they may have something actionable tomorrow,” says Ki-Adi. “Padawan Tano has convinced Knight Skywalker to join the efforts - I’m inclined to think we can send a rescue before evening.” 

Mace nods. “That’s good.” He waits for the rest.

“Mace, I know you and Plo are . . . close. No one would fault you if you needed to take a step away from this situation.”

“Who else could go after him?” Mace asks. For someone to subdue and control a Master of Plo’s caliber for such a length of time, they must be formidable indeed. The number of Jedi who would be capable of taking on this mission is small, even before considering troop deployments and medical leave. The political aspect is an added complication that requires Council attention, and even though if push came to shove Mace  _ knows _ any of his fellow Councilors would find a way to make time if he needed, the part of him that wants years more of blanket-stealing and sly humor does not want to leave Plo’s fate in others’ hands. 

There have been rumors ebbing and flowing about the two of them for years anyway, and this episode will hardly change anything in the gossip. Plo, if he survives, will have a new source of amusement. 

“If you’re sure,” says Ki-Adi. He drops a hand on Mace’s shoulder. “But you’re certainly not going alone.”

* * *

Commander Wolffe is waiting for him on the boarding ramp of a larger-than-expected ship with his personal fireteam standing at attention. 

“Sir,” says the Commander, “we’re coming with you.” 

“Who is we?” Mace asks, an eyebrow raised. He peers behind Wolffe and catches sight of a row of trooper boots in the seating area of the ship.

“Commander Ponds, myself, and a selection of the 91st Recon and 104th, sir,” says Wolffe. “General Koon is my Jedi, and he’s in his predicament because he’s been agitating for us troopers.  _ Vode an _ , and we never leave a brother behind.” 

The rumor mill, apparently, remains the most efficient organization in the galaxy. Mace makes a note to figure out where the troopers are getting their information from when there aren’t more pressing matters at hand.

“And how is Commander Ponds involved?” Mace asks, waving Wolffe and his men to the ship ahead of him.

“That’s between you and him, sir,” says Wolffe. 

Mace can see why Plo is so fond of the man, even as he throws him under the bus with his own Commander. Ponds disapproves heavily of Mace’s original plan to go hunting on his own and makes his displeasure known with a barely-concealed disappointed frown. 

“General Windu,” says Ponds. 

“Commander Ponds,” says Mace. “Should I be concerned about the information security in the GAR?”

“General Koon’s Senate appearances are in high demand for popular viewing,” says Ponds, possibly lying through his teeth. “So when he missed his check-in, people got curious.” 

Mace drops the subject. Ponds keeps his own counsel; he’s not going to reveal any more. “Master Koon was sent on a diplomatic mission three and a half weeks ago. We received information he had been captured by a group of anti-war extremists who believe he is personally responsible for the enslavement of the GAR. So far as we know, as of last week he was alive and injured. The slicers were able to provide a location for us based on the footage. I - or rather, we, now - are going to extract him.”  _ Before he can antagonize his captors into doing any more damage to his person. _

“Search and rescue, Wolffe,” says Ponds. “Your favorite.”

* * *

Wolffe and Ponds spend most of the hyperspace jump hashing out a plan of attack. Wolffe loses the coin toss and gets diversion duty. Ponds will be searching for the culprits while Mace goes after Plo. Collateral damage is discouraged, though Mace won’t be terribly sorry if there’s a little bit of destruction of property on the way so long as they get what they came for. 

He stalks down the corridor on the east end of the compound. He’s already found the surveillance station, conveniently close to the cell blocks where they’re keeping their prisoner. On the monitor, Plo was strung up by the arms, a thick collar around his neck. His presence in the Force is dimmed. Along with the syringes of Force suppressants lined up on the table, Mace is pretty sure he knows how they managed to keep Plo from wreaking havoc whilst merrily strolling out the front door. 

He’s just grateful that Plo is still alive at this point. Three weeks is a long time. 

The door is locked. Mace’s lightsaber convinces the lock to open, and he steps into the cell.

“Are you finally offering to take my coat? I knew you had better manners,” Plo says weakly, and Mace’s headache returns.

“I swear to all the little gods, Plo,” he groans, and Plo chuckles.


	3. resolve

Plo has not fared well. His broken arm is most definitely healing in the wrong position, and what had once been mild rasping now echoes in the room with every breath. His talons have been cut to the quick, and his tusks as well. He is bruised everywhere, and his tunics are slashed open in the back over gashes that look infected. Mace studies him on the approach, cataloging every injury and running through the list of things Plo’s Sergeant medic had said to look for. 

“It took you long enough,” says Plo, a slowness to his words that makes him sound drunk. 

“Do you have any idea how many hallways there are here?” Mace quips back, slicing through the chains and examining the collar. “How are you?”

“I’ve seen better days,” says Plo. He allows his weight to rest on Mace’s shoulder and holds still while Mace cuts through the band of metal. As soon as the circuit is broken, his presence in the Force makes itself known, the same bright, troublesome spark that he’s always been in the edge of Mace’s awareness. He draws a fleeting spiral down Mace’s back and pulls away on unsteady feet just in time for an explosion to shake the ground. “I take it you brought help.”

“Commander Wolffe informs me that you’re grounded as soon as we get back to Coruscant,” says Mace. He leads Plo to the exit, updating Ponds on their progress. At this rate, they might make it to the ship before either group of troopers. Or not - he turns a corner and a blaster bolt skims by his face, so close he can feel the heat on his nose. 

“I don’t suppose you brought my saber?” Plo asks, his back against the wall as the hallway turns into a firing range.

“You’re going spelunking,” says Mace. He lights his own saber and steps into the corridor, deflecting bolts while he advances to the next crossway. He feels a warm hand settle on his shoulder, four fingers of pressure at his back, and then a flicker in the Force before a nearby door wrenches itself off its rails and goes flying upstream, bowling over two combatants and a droid. Mace takes advantage of the distraction to cut through another two droids and open a new path through a less occupied part of the base. 

They need to escape quickly; even now, Mace can feel Plo lagging as they progress. He won’t admit it, but his captivity has taken a toll on him, and now combat is rapidly draining what little reserve he has left, even if he relies on the techniques that use environmental energy instead of his own. And Vapaad does not lend itself to defending a second party. They are both at a disadvantage. 

A collection of droid parts compress themselves into a cylinder and launches past Mace’s shoulder, and the turret on the receiving end explodes. Mace narrows his eyes at Plo, who shrugs innocently but goes back to discommoding their opponents with sudden temperature changes. 

“Commander Ponds, what’s your status?” Mace snaps.

“Still chasing,” Ponds answers. “Think we’re following your trail, unless there’s someone else here freezing clankers into ice. Wolffe’s on a running retreat.”

“Meet up with us and we’ll make a push for the LZ,” says Mace. Somebody’s trousers spontaneously burst into flame. The shrieking draws his attention for a split second - and suddenly he’s being Force pushed away, turning his fall into a roll, and when he’s focused and on his feet again, his heart stops. 

“We aren’t finished,” says the voice from the vidfile, hauling Plo’s body up, a blaster at his head. “You aren’t leaving here alive after everything you’ve done.”

Mace meets Plo’s hazy gaze. _Don’t you say a word_ , he thinks furiously, and he sees Plo back away from whatever smart remark he was about to make. The sound of approaching clone troopers ends with the hum of charging blasters around them. But it’s a stalemate; if they shoot, the man will jerk, and if they’ve come all this way just to watch Plo die at the hands of a megalomaniac Mace doesn’t know what he’ll do. 

“Let him go,” Mace orders, hopes, prays. “This does not need to end in violence.”

The man snarls and pulls the blaster away to point at Mace -

And then there’s a blinding flash of light and a deafening _crack_.

* * *

When the smoke clears, the smell of charred flesh lingers. Plo and his captor are both sprawled on the ground, lightly smoking, neither moving. Ponds goes straight for the latter , checking a pulse and slapping cuffs on him, leaving Mace free to go to Plo, who is terribly, horribly still. 

His breathing is silent now, and ash falls from his mask as Mace turns him over onto his back, a sure sign that his filter is well and truly broken. He isn’t bleeding from the neck, which gives Mace a measure of relief, but then he thinks Plo probably was counting on that when he blasted them both with lightning; his muscles would have been locked in place. He would also have been in full knowledge that he would be incinerating his own life support. 

“Why do you always do these things?” Mace mutters. His heart is beating in his throat, his stomach full of butterflies, his hands almost shaking as he presses a hand over Plo’s chest looking for a beat. He holds his breath. There’s nothing there. 

And then Plo places his hand over Mace’s and shifts them both a few inches lower. Even through his thick skin, his pulse is strong and steady.

“I know the Council disagrees with me on the use of lightning . . .” Plo says. His voice is thin, barely audible now that his mask is malfunctioning. It’s the most wonderful thing that Mace has ever heard. 

“The Council disagrees with you on a lot more than just that,” says Mace. “You’ll be explaining yourself at length when we get back.”

“I look forward to it,” says Plo. “If I survive my Sergeant’s tender ministrations, that is.”

Sure enough, Commander Wolffe shows up, and with him the battalion medic, who promptly begins swearing a blue streak without actually using any profanity. The Sergeant slaps a modified rebreather onto Plo’s face with a scowl.

“We’re going to have _words_ about this, sir,” he says, “and you’ve got another thing coming if you think General Windu can save you.”

The trip back to their transport is blissfully devoid of colourful commentary. Once they’re on the way off-planet, the tension in Mace’s shoulders begin to give. Things are well, all things considered: Plo is beside him, lightly dozing against his shoulder; the troopers are alive, whole, and only moderately irritated at their Jedi; they know of a new threat and can take precautions. Though the galaxy has continued to spiral away from sanity, this time he’s been able to forstall chaos in his personal sphere. 

He traces a spiral on the inside of Plo’s wrist and revels in the answering smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Complete with several nods to comics, factbooks, and other things that are probably considered legends material now.


End file.
